Shine
by Little Cinch
Summary: Simple story following Daryl's thoughts about the group. Rating for Dixon-mouth. Caryl.


**This was something that came out as a distraction when I was stuck on my other story. I decided to post it because why the hell not. It's nothing unique or action-packed or even particularly interesting. I just find Carol's character arc absolutely fascinating. It seems others around her might notice the changes in her, too, if they bothered to look.**

**Disclaimer: The Walking Dead and all related characters and themes do not belong to me. I just like thinking about them and making them do stuff in my head.**

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A gust of wind swept briskly through the quiet camp, stirring the embers of the campfire and sending glowing sparks swirling into the air. The autumn days were still fairly comfortable, but the nights were getting cold – too cold to be spending them out in the open like this much longer.

The group was tired. They'd been on the move for some time now. After the relative comfort of the Greene farm, it had taken most of them a while to adjust to life on the road. Daryl had no trouble adjusting, but then his life had never been particularly comfortable. He sat away from the others, sharpening his hunting knife and watching the sleepy camp.

T-Dog was on watch. He stood in the bed of the pickup, leaning back against the cab with a blanket around his shoulders and a rifle in his hands, eyes scanning the treeline for walkers or other threats. He didn't say much as a rule, and Daryl appreciated that. Wasn't spending all his time getting up in everyone's business or stirring up trouble like half of this bunch seemed to. He was solid. Reliable. A good man. Seemed everybody around here took him for granted.

The Greene family was clustered together near the fire. The old man and the blonde were closest to the warmth, sleeping huddled close together. Maggie and Glenn were behind them a bit, apparently not shy about making their own warmth. They'd better damn well learn how to be more discreet, or the old man would get riled. Daryl had spent enough time around Maggie now to know she wouldn't back down from a fight no matter how much she loved her pa, and they really didn't need any more bad blood in this group.

He shook his head. When those two had first started hookin' up, thinking they were all secretive about it, he was surprised. It seemed the end of the world was being kind to Glenn – ain't no way he'd tap that before everything went to shit. He snorted softly. If he were honest with himself though, he'd have to admit Glenn was a good guy. He was tough, smarter than he realized, and had some brass balls. Well, except when it came to that woman of his, anyway.

As he continued to hone his blade methodically, his eyes drifted over to the sleeping Grimes family. Now there was a clusterfuck if he ever saw one. All three of them were showing the strain of the tensions between them. They barely spoke to each other anymore, and when they did, it was to spit venom. Rick, who was already a mess after the shit that went down with Shane, just seemed to be sinking further and further into himself. His wife and kid weren't making things any easier, treating him the way they were. Rick was a good man, and that was the problem. If he didn't give two shits, leading this group wouldn't be such a burden on him. As it was, he was struggling, but Daryl had no idea what to do about it. He sure as hell didn't want to be responsible for anything but himself, so he just kept on following Rick's lead and did his best to keep everyone safe and fed.

Hell of a fuckin' group this was. Sometimes he wondered why he stuck around. But deep down he knew why. He just didn't understand it or even like to admit it, not even to himself.

He refused to look over to the little bundle of blanket to the right of the fire. He knew she'd be twisted up tightly in the ratty wool with just her hair and nose visible at one end.

Back at the quarry, he had noticed her only peripherally. She existed and that was it. A small, soft, timid thing. Grey hair, grey eyes, grey clothes. Her shitbag husband clearly beat on her – Daryl had known right away just looking at her. The way she tiptoed around the place, doing her best to be invisible? Anybody could see it. But it wasn't his business, so he'd let her be invisible. He didn't even know her name back then. The only time he'd paid any attention was when she was alone with her daughter. In those moments, he could see that little girl was her whole world. In those moments, she wasn't grey or invisible at all.

She shined.

After the bullshit with Merle bein' left behind in Atlanta and the walker attack on the camp, he had been ready to cut ties with all of them and head out on his own. But when they were dealing with the bodies the next morning, he'd changed his mind. He'd been piercing the skulls of all the dead before the bodies were dragged off to be burned. Next up was the shitbag. Pulverizing his head would be satisfying, and he'd just started to raise the pickaxe when she approached. She had wanted to be the one to do it – she'd been tearful, but insisted that he was her husband and she should be the one. He could respect that. The rest of these assholes apparently didn't have the stones for it. He'd handed over the pickaxe without a word.

She wasn't strong. The weight of the pick had been challenging for her to handle. But she'd pulled it back over her shoulder and slammed it down into her dead husband's face. Then, to his surprise, she'd done it again. And again. Sobbing, she'd smashed his skull into pulp, releasing whatever crazy, fucked up tangle of feelings she'd had for the shitbag. He hadn't known quite what to think at the time or what to say, so he'd just accepted the pickaxe when she handed it back and watched her stumble back toward the others. But he'd been a little impressed. After that, he'd made a point to find out her name.

Daryl skimmed the edge of his knife down his forearm. It was razor sharp now and shaved the hairs off with almost no pressure at all. Satisfied, he pulled a strip of leather out of his pack and began stropping the blade to finish it up.

He finally gave in to the urge to look over at Carol sleeping by the fire. He'd known she really was something special when she saved them all at the CDC by pulling a hand grenade out of that magical goddamn bag of hers. He half-smiled at the memory. A fucking hand grenade! Everything was so panicked and crazy right then, and afterward everyone was so relieved to have escaped, that he wasn't sure anyone else remembered it was Carol who had kept them from being barbequed that day.

Then after the little girl had disappeared into the forest, he'd wanted so badly to bring her back. He _needed_ to bring her back. He needed to reunite them so the little grey woman could shine again. He wanted her to keep hoping and keep looking to him with those big blue eyes.

Blue eyes. At some point during the search for Sophia, he'd started thinking of her eyes as blue, not grey.

And after his failure to save her daughter, she somehow didn't hate him as he hated himself. He didn't understand how she could still look to him that way, when he'd failed her so utterly. Every time she turned her big eyes on him, it chafed him. Guilt and self-loathing ate away at him every time she reached out to him. It didn't seem to matter how big an asshole he was, he couldn't seem to chase her away, and it always made him feel even more guilty afterward. He couldn't make sense of her, and it made him irritable not to know what she wanted from him. But somehow he still felt a thrill each time she came to him. Made no damn sense.

He put away his strop and sheathed his knife. He looked once again at Carol, all bundled up against the chill, her silver hair poking out from the red wool. She wore a lot of red these days, and it suited her silver hair and blue eyes. Silver hair - not grey. She wasn't grey anymore. Not at all. Maybe she'd never shine the same way as she did with Sophia, but she shined all the same. And for some reason, he was glad of it.


End file.
